By Sempad Shahnazarian

Chapter Three

ou must shake yourself free of these hallucinations,”  murmured Petros. “Let the enchanting scenes of your Fatherland be your admirable girl friend. Every time you look at that dreamland, you will see her there smiling at you with pride and love.”

  Aren’t the sumptuous mountains, with their crests in the clouds, sources of sublime sensations?

  Aren’t the smiling prairies, with their variegated flowers, like lyric poems?

  Aren’t the quietly rolling streams, with their amorous murmur, like the whisper of loving souls?

  Aren’t the undulating wheat fields, with their caressing breeze, like trembling embraces of lovers?

  Aren’t the ancestral villages like hard working labourers kneeling motionless in the haze of prayer?

  In these things you must see her and to them you must devote all of your time and energy.”

  A moment afterwards he entered his cave and walked into the hollow where his Mauser was hidden. He took it out, unwrapped it and began to fondle it, looking dreamily in the direction of the Sassoun mountains, where a few years before, he had fought the Turks during the Armenian insurrection induced by the horrible regime under which they lived.

  “Good morning Petros!” came the voice of Garo from outside.

  “Good morning! Come in!” said Petros. He was not wearing his clerical robe today. Noticing Garo’s surprise, he simply said: “I am just one of you shepherds...No more robes for me.”

  They grinned silently and sat on boulders by the entrance.

  “Bad news, Petros!” said Garo, breaking the silence. At this time Sempad came up hurriedly and extending a daily newspaper to Petros said, out of breath:  “Read these headlines...War imminent between Turkey and Russia.”  Petros scoured the news, looked over the other pages calmly and said:  “If it is true, my friends, this war is going to surpass everything that has happened so far. I believe that it will take at least four or five years to be ready for such a clash.  It’s too soon to get alarmed.”

  “What should our attitude be then?”

  “Self-defense!” answered Petros.  “The Turks can’t stand to see our schools flourishing...our farmers getting more and more out of their fields...our students swarming the European universities...our papers freely criticizing the criminal acts the Turks and the Kurds have committed upon our people...our pursuit of autonomy or independence.  All of these things inspire the Turkish leaders with the fiendish idea of solving this problem at one stroke --extermination of our people-- and nobody is going to stop them from doing it, except for the Russian Mauser and our unflinching will to defend ourselves from being annihilated.”

  “Yes! You are absolutely right” cried Sempad. “If we don’t help ourselves, nobody will. Take, for instance, the nine Vartabeds we have here. None of them have so much as a tiny knife in his pocket in case of a necessity...All they have is the Bible in their hands.”

  “How about Stepan Vartabed?” remarked one of the shepherds.

  “Good for him! He is the only one who has a Mauser hanging in his closet, and a revolver always under his robe...Why don’t the rest of them do the same thing? They will be sorry some day. They are simply blinded by the incense smoke and bewildered by their constant genuflection. I believe they misunderstand the biblical philosophy, or rather theology. God is a very busy Super Being. He cannot watch over the movements of every particle of the universal substance. They all have their own qualities and abilities to exercise in case of necessity.

  What I am trying to say is that everyone of us should do what Stepan Vartabed is doing...to be ready to confront any eventuality!”
  “The hundreds of churches and dozens of monasteries our ancestors have built are not going to help us,” broke in Garo.

  At this, a profound silence reigned, in which everyone struggled with the ramifications of this statement, when Petros deviated from the topic and said: “The school is closed for a week, why don’t we all go and see the boys. It’s been so long since we’ve been there.”

  “All right! Let’s go,” they said, and soon they were on their way down the craggy mountainside, entering the vast courtyard and going up the stone steps and into the dormitory.

  On seeing them, the boys rushed all around excitedly welcoming them with cheers and handshakes.

  As the excitement subsided, some of the boys stood by the fireplace poking around, and others sat on their cots, in suspense, and looked smilingly at their guests.

  “How is everybody?” said Petros, breaking the silence.

  “All right! All right!” came the unanimous answer.

  “What have you been planning to do this week?” asked Petros.

  “Reading; playing; doing nothing,” they all said in unison.

  “We have been reading Aharonian’s On the Road to Liberty you gave us to read,” said Sempad.

  Addressing the boys, Petros asked intently: “Do you like those kinds of books to read?”

  “Very much!” they said.

  “I am glad to hear that. Then you must like the heroes in those stories.”

  “Of course! Of course we do!”

  “Laziness and cowardice are foreign elements to our people. They’re all hard workers from morning to sundown. They cultivate fields. They rear children. They teach them to worship God. They instill in them the love for their soil and their country.  All these are all right. They are beautiful virtues. But, what if our enemy attacks us with knives and guns and fire? Are we capable of answering them with the same weapons?

  We have nine Vartabeds here who have no way to defend themselves. Stepan Vartabed is the only one who can make us proud. He has a Mauser hidden in his closet and is always carrying a pistol under his robe.

  I congratulate you all for your interest in our Fedayi movement. I congratulate Sempad for the beautiful speech he read, the other day, at the Vartabed’s gathering. I enjoyed it greatly. I was surprised to hear a teenager preaching highly realistic ideas. I nearly cried when he mentioned certain heroic deeds done by Kevork Tchavoush and Antranik in the battles of Sassoun. I should not forget to mention the name of his father Der Kerope who has been one of the most fearless Fedayis of our time.

  His father had thrown his clerical attire away at that time and was wearing a Russian Cossack’s uniform and carrying a Mauser and had cartridge bands crossing his chest.

  His heroism should serve as a source of inspiration for every Armenian, especially for every growing Armenian. I am so proud to have been with him along with his heroic deeds through all the bloody battles.

  Some day when you are all grown up, you may read books of his achievements.”

  Then looking at Sempad, he added: “The other day I heard that you will be going to Ketronagan Varjaran in Constantinople next year. How I wish I were going with you! Ketronagan is the greatest Armenian school there is. I wish you success, Sempad!

  I also congratulate Karekin for the beautiful song he sang Hayastan (Armenia), at the Vartabed’s gathering. Let’s all grow in the spirit of that song.

  Oh! I almost forgot to tell you that tomorrow morning we will be going to Eagles’ Rock. Meet me at the hilltop, early in the morning.”

  Garo, one of the shepherds, interrupted Petros, saying: “We came to visit the boys not just to say hello and good-bye, but for something more important than that.

  We mentioned the war a while ago and how destructive it is going to be. Don’t you think it is high time we should do something in the face of this peril. 

  We have an underground movement of self-defense in effect. The organization even accepts teenagers in its ranks.” 

  “Bravo! Bravo!” shouted the boys excitedly. “Let Petros be our leader; our adviser.”

  “We will be very grateful to him if he makes up his mind to become our organizer,” said Karekin.

  “I think his mind is already made up” said Sempad. “We need someone like him. Let our teachers get busy with schoolwork, and let Petros train us in our underground movement.”

  “That movement without arms and ammunition is meaningless, of course. Our Central Committee is working hard in that respect” said Garo.

  Petros listened in silence without discussing the matter and said calmly: “Let’s not forget! Tomorrow morning we will be on our way to Eagles’ Rock. We will have plenty of time to talk about these things there.  Above everything, secrecy.”

  In profound silence, he walked out of the dormitory with Garo following him. 

  The morning was cool and clear and the ground wet. At sunrise Petros was already walking up the mountainside to meet the boys.

  The partridges, from the crevices of the rocky slope, began to sing as the sun perched on the rim of the eastern ridge in the hazy distance.

  The birds, in the woods, just woke up and started their musical conversations and the flowers were waiting for the kisses of the sun’s rays to dry their cheeks of the twinkling drops of the morning dew.

  Having reached the top of a cliff, Petros commanded a picturesque landscape and he stood there like a statue in the morning sun. He began to sing Hayastan, Armenia, a beautiful patriotic song.

  As he sang, the precipices echoed his voice and the flowers, uncovering their bosoms from the morning mist, looked dreamily at him and then an undertone developed into a glorious concert.

  The flowers and the butterflies burst out into an unearthly dance, perfuming the air with an intoxicating fragrance; and all the Armenian Monasteries perched on the heights of the mountains, here and in the distance, began to ring their bells for the blessing of our soil...for the blooming of our thoughts...for the irresistible march of our children and for the harvest of their dreams...

  In this exultation, Petros felt as if all of the books and parchments in our libraries were singing with him...the tombs of our kings and princes were singing with him...the ruins of pagan temples and the belfries were singing with him; and the sun, cheerful and inspired by this Heavenly symphony, spread its golden haze upon the vibrating melodies and the great billowing wheat fields waiting for the golden harvest.

  He was still standing on the top of the cliff, looking dreamily into the void, when the boys got to the foot of the rock, calling: “Hey! Come down! We’re already on our way to Eagles’ Rock.”

  As he clambered down and joined them, they told him that he sang so beautifully and that they could hear him singing from miles away because of his powerful voice.

  “It was not I who was singing,” he said. “It was our Fatherland...its mountains...its highlands...its rivers...its totality.”

  Thus, chattering along, they walked over two miles before they arrived at Eagles’ Rock, an enormous cliff with a protruding arm into the void over the precipice.

  On the farthest point of the arm there stood a huge circular nest woven with willow branches and weeds and feathers, and in the center of it could be seen two large eggs and an eaglet just breaking its shell to come out, and a couple of dead snakes hanging down from the edge and floating in the air.

  They looked at the nest admiringly and made up their minds to get the eggs. It would have been impossible to even approach the nest had it not been for the ingenuity and daring of Petros.

  He looked at the boys, and said: “There are ten of us...that means ten belts...that will do.”

  They took off their woolen belts, tied them together into a long rope and took charge of the situation.

  “We have the rope now,” said Petros. “Let’s see who is going to be the hero?” he said with a smile.

  “You! You!” they all cried out in unison.

  He took the rope, tied one end of it to his waist, letting the boys hold the other end tightly; he then, began to inch slowly and cautiously onto the protruding arm.

  The precipice yawned below.

  “Be careful, Petros!” the boys yelled.

  He kept moving on and on toward the nest, when all of a sudden from nowhere, a roar and a flap of  wings  was  heard  overhead  with  an  eagle swooping down on Petros, who fought frantically with his hands to chase him away.

  After a brief struggle the eagle flew away and began to circle over the precipice.

   The boys were petrified with terror.

  The eagle had apparently been watching over his nest, from high up in the clouds and had charged upon seeing the impending danger to his home.

  Petros wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand, but did not give up. He remained there tense and motionless for a moment, then began to move on again, slowly and cautiously.

  This time the eagle came down like a crazed beast with his threatening claws and curved beak aimed straight at him, but Petros was now more furious than before. He, with his hands and the boys with stones flinging at the eagle, succeeded in chasing him away.
 

  When he got back safely, he stuttered with excitement: “You cannot imagine what it means to see a crazed eagle, with red eyes and claws curled only inches from your face, upon the brink of the abyss.”